Becket's Last Stand

“Tomorrow, Callie. I’ll take you riding tomorrow. I think we both could benefit from a few hours away from Becket Hall.”

“Thank you, Court.” She stepped up on tiptoe and daringly placed a quick kiss on his mouth. But when she went to step away from him his arms closed more tightly around her and he lowered his face to hers, sealing their mouths together.

Cassandra closed her eyes as the strangest feeling rippled through her body, and then raised her arms to hold them around his neck as he showed her that the kiss she’d given him had been far from what a real kiss should be. She felt the tip of his tongue against her lips as he seemed to want her mouth open, and she complied, because saying no to anything Court had ever wanted from her was beyond her power.

“Callie,” he whispered against her lips, withdrawing slightly, and then taking her mouth so completely that she could only sigh, and hold on to him for dear life. This was where she wanted to be. In his arms.

This was where she was destined to be. In his life.

Praise for Kasey Michaels

A Reckless Beauty “A Reckless Beauty [is] a cannon shot. Drama by the boatload, danger around every corner, and heart-wrenching emotion await readers.” —A Romance Review

A Most Unsuitable Groom “From the first page to the last this continuation of the Beckets of Romney Marsh saga is a well-crafted novel. Emotional intensity, simmering sexual tension, characters you care about and political intrigue – plus touches of humour and a poignant love story – all come together in this hugely entertaining keeper.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Dangerous Debutante “Her characters shine as she brings in fascinating details of the era, engaging plot twists and plenty of sensuality.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Shall We Dance? “Brimming with historical details and characters ranging from royalty to spies, greedy servants to a jealous woman, this tale is told with panache and wit.” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Butler Did It “Michaels’ ingenious sense of humour reaches new heights as she brings marvellous characters and a too-funny-for-words story to life. (…) What fun, what pleasure, what a read!” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

USA TODAY bestselling author Kasey Michaels is the author of more than ninety books. She has earned three starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has been awarded the RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award, the Waldenbooks and BookRak awards, and several other commendations for her writing excellence in both contemporary and historical novels. There are more than eight million copies of her books in print around the world. Kasey resides in Pennsylvania with her family, where she is always at work on her next book.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my editor, Melissa Jeglinski,

for all her invaluable input, hard work,

friendship and support during two frantic

years of living almost daily with The Beckets of Romney Marsh. Couldn’t have done it without you, babe!

PROLOGUE

1798 An unnamed island near Haiti

IT WAS THE HEIGHT of summer, hot, crushingly hot, difficult-to-breathe hot. But behind the thick walls of the two-story house set among the towering shrubs, nestled among the swaying palms, the air was relatively cool in the large bedchamber. And that air was sweet with the smell of Isabella’s perfume.

Courtland sat cross-legged on the wide-planked floor, holding the young Cassandra in front of him, encouraging her to stand on her chubby little legs. But the child wasn’t cooperating. She was much too enthralled with the idea of pulling off Courtland’s nose, giggling as she reached for him.

“She’s too young to stand,” Odette the Voodoo woman warned him as she brushed Isabella’s long, dark curls. “Her legs will bow like Billy’s and she’ll roll when she walks, with you to blame for it all.”

Isabella laughed, a sound like the sweetest music, as she leaned closer to the large mirror, slipping sapphire bobs into her ears. “Oh, stop teasing our poor Court, Odette,” she said, “that’s not true. My sweet baby would never roll when she walks. She will glide, like an angel, and she will float in the dance in this London Geoff promises us, the belle of every ball. We will all be so grand, won’t we?”

And then she swiveled on the small padded chair and smiled at Courtland, blew both him and the infant Cassandra a kiss.

Courtland felt his heart skip a beat and knew hot color was creeping up into his cheeks, for he loved the beautiful Isabella with every fiber of his thirteen-year- old being. He didn’t know that, of course, because love had never been a part of his life before coming to the island. He only knew he lived for her, would die for her. He lived for Cassandra, and would gladly die for her, too, because she was a part of Isabella, a part of his savior, Geoffrey Baskin.

Cassandra went to her hands and knees, her favored form of locomotion, and crawled onto Courtland’s lap, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and within moments was asleep in the afternoon heat. He could pick her up, take her to her cot in the dressing room, but it felt so good to hold the small, trusting body that he leaned his back against the wall and contented himself watching Odette brush Isabella’s hair…and thinking of the past, of the day he’d first arrived on the island.

The day had begun as usual, with his seven- year-old self being roughly kicked awake by the boot of the man who insisted Courtland call him Papa. But would a father kick a son, make him sleep with the huge, bad-tempered dogs that were allowed to roam free in the shop at night, fight them for the food that was always too little and often too spoiled to eat? Courtland couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think a father should treat his son that way.

The other thing that was usual about the morning was that his papa was drunk. Mean drunk, nasty drunk. And Courtland was sick, having eaten some of the meat that the dogs had left for him, and the vile-smelling vomit on the floor beside him was his own. He didn’t want to wake up, he didn’t want to clean up his mess. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep forever.

But his papa kicked him again, hard, and began yelling about the dogs, something about the dogs. Something about the damn miserable dogs being dead and they’d been worth twice what the boy was, the useless little bastard.

That’s when Courtland had heard the worst sound, that of his father’s whip being untied from his belt, the braided leather with its several small ends, each tipped with a small lead ball, snapping hard against the floor an inch from his head. He would have cried out, but he’d learned not to do that. He’d learned not to talk at all, not to ever make a sound. It was safer that way. He could almost be invisible, if he didn’t talk. Sometimes. Not this morning.

He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was too slow, had moved too late. The whip snaked out again, this time catching him hard across the back, cutting deep into his young skin in at least a half-dozen places. Again. And again. Over and over, until Courtland thought he might die, like the dogs.

But then the blows stopped, and his father cursed, and Courtland heard another man speaking. Quietly, firmly. He dared to lift his head, and saw a tall, dark- haired man dressed in fine black clothes, holding tight to his father’s wrist, looking down into his face.

“Billy, take the boy outside. Mind his back as you carry him,” the man said as he squeezed harder, and the whip slipped to the floor. “And Jacko, my friend, man the door, if you would, please. This lump of offal and I have something to discuss, and need our privacy.”

Courtland had felt himself being picked up, oh so gently, and carried out of the shop, into the morning sun. The man holding him crooned to him, told him he was all right, that the Cap’n would take care of him, that nobody would hurt him, not ever again. That he’d be “just like the other one, most like, God help us all.”

But Courtland hadn’t really been listening, because the whip had cracked again, only this time not against his back. He heard his father yell, curse. Again, the crack of the whip. His father yelled again, but this time he didn’t curse. He had begun to plead, to beg. “Stop! Stop! You can have him—but I’ll be paid!”

The whip cracked again, three times in quick succession, and Courtland listened for his father’s voice, but it never came. He looked to the door, to the huge, smiling man who stood there, blocking it, and waited for his father to walk out, holding the whip, coming for him once again.

When the door opened, however, it was the tall man who emerged, hesitating only to throw the whip back into the dimness of the shop. He walked over to the man named Billy and held out his arms, so that Courtland felt himself being transferred.

“Hello, son,” the man said quietly. “I’m Geoffrey Baskin, and you’ll come live with me, if you want. No one will beat you ever again, I promise. What’s your name?”

Courtland remained silent, which is how he came to be Courtland, named for a sailor on one of Geoffrey Baskin’s ships who had perished of a fever a few months earlier, and he remained silent for nearly six years, until Geoffrey had brought home an angel named Isabella, whose smile and sweet ways had eventually coaxed him into speaking once more.

His very first word spoken on the island had been Callie, a gruff, rasping mispronunciation of Isabella’s and Geoff’s newborn daughter, Cassandra, who would never be called Cassie again, at Isabella’s order.

There were other children now, all of them brought to the island by Geoffrey Baskin. Chance, who had already been in residence when Courtland arrived. A newborn infant, Morgan, was brought back from another trip to Haiti. Three years later a half dozen more children, survivors of an attack on a church on another island. Finally, a wild young hothead named Spencer.

Courtland didn’t mix with the other children very often. He didn’t speak, and they seemed to think that was funny. He stayed by himself, watching, always watching, always waiting for the first sick singing of the whip before it bit into his back. But it never came.

Isabella. She had arrived instead. An angel as beautiful as his rescuer, Geoffrey Baskin, was handsome. And after years of cautious watching, the young Courtland was ready to give his trust, his heart.

“Dreaming again, Missy Isabella,” Odette said, pointing now at Courtland with the hairbrush. “Boy’s like a puppy.”

Courtland flushed once more and got to his feet, careful to hold Cassandra close as he turned his back, walked over to the open doors that led out onto the veranda that faced the sea.

“Court? Do you see him yet?” Isabella asked, getting to her feet, shaking out the full skirts of her grass-green gown. “I’m so anxious, aren’t I? He promised they’d be back before dinner tonight. And then no more grand adventures for my Geoff, not without me by his side as we all sail to our new home. Imagine it, Court. Nearly three hundred of us, all sailing off together, leaving this island behind, a whole new world opening up ahead of us. But still no sign of Geoff?”

Courtland squinted, concentrating on the horizon, the place where brilliant blue-green water met a cloudless blue sky. “No, ma’am, I don’t see them. Not yet.”

She came to stand beside him, not all that much taller than he, and kissed the soft brown curls on her sleeping daughter’s head. “Are you anxious to sail to England, Courtland? Will you miss our small paradise?”

“Papa Geoff says it’s time to go. Time to be respectable and safe.”

“Being a privateer is respectable, Court,” Isabella told him. “Just not respectable enough for my silly husband. He teases that he prefers cold and damp England to our warmth and sun here, and that we will, too. We shall soon see if he’s right, won’t we?”

Courtland nodded, then looked at the expanse of vibrant greenery and chalk-white sand that led to the water, the horseshoe of land surrounding the natural harbor filled with small houses belonging to the crews of the two ships owned by Geoffrey Baskin. Everywhere was bustling activity as the women added to the small mountains of belongings soon to be loaded on the ships. Transporting three hundred people across the wide ocean was no minor undertaking, but they would be ready to sail within the week.

His gaze singled out Spencer wrestling with Isaac and Rian, two of the boys their Papa Geoff had rescued from the destroyed church. And there was young Fanny, wearing the striped dress cut from extra material from Isabella’s new gown; her hair so blond it was nearly white, daring the small wavelets in her bare feet; charging, retreating. He couldn’t hear her laughter, not up here, but he knew she was laughing, for Fanny was a happy child, her memory of her mother’s death in that same church fading as she grew.

He watched as Fanny began to jump up and down, pointing out to sea, and he followed her direction with his eyes, caught sight of sails flashing in the sunlight as they came around the northernmost part of the island, into the natural harbor. He sighed in relief, knowing Papa Geoff’s last adventure as a privateer was now over, that he would be safe. Yes, Courtland supposed he was happy to be leaving here, no longer being forced to worry for his Papa Geoff, his savior, each time the two ships sailed out of the harbor.

“They’re back,” he said, his breath catching in his throat. “Just as they said they would be.”

Isabella kept her hand on his shoulder, also peering out to sea. But then her fingers dug deeper into Courtland’s shoulder. “No, that’s not Geoff. Three ships, Courtland, see? Three ships, not our two.”

Courtland looked at Isabella, saw the worry in her beautiful eyes, and then looked toward the ships once more. What was wrong? No, they weren’t their ships, the Black Ghost and the Silver Ghost. But he did recognize them now; they were the ships of Papa Geoff’s privateering partner, Edmund Beales.

“It’s all right,” he told Isabella. “It’s only Beales.”

But wasn’t he supposed to be with Geoffrey and Chance and Jacko and Billy and the others? Where were the Black Ghost and the Silver Ghost? Why only Beales’s three ships? Something was wrong, wasn’t it?

Rian, leaving Issac sprawled on the ground, seemed to already know that, for he was running toward Fanny, scooping her up into his arms, and heading for the main house with Spencer, the two of them shouting, although Courtland could not make out what they were saying. Isaac watched them go, laughing, and then turned to wave to the approaching long boats, already lowered into the clear, calm waters.

It was then that Courtland realized something, knew what Rian and Spencer had seen. It was the ship that lay parallel to the beach. Its gun ports were open, the small cannon being run out. “Ma’am!”

Isabella must have seen it, too. She raced across the veranda, pressed her body against the railing. “Run! Into the trees! Hide! Run, everyone! Run!”

Odette was with them now, her black face nearly gray as she wrung her hands together, as they all watched the longboats being pulled, one by one, up onto the beach. “Betrayal. Beales wants more than his share. I did not see this. Why did I not see this? Sweet Virgin, Missy Isabella, you have to go. You have to go now!”

But Isabella was still shouting, waving her arms in the air, pleading with everyone who had raced out of their small houses and into the sandy clearing to run, run into the trees, to hide themselves.

Courtland stood very still, holding the sleeping Cassandra, refusing to believe what was happening. He flinched at the first gunshot, squeezing Cassandra’s small body so tightly that she woke, began to cry. Odette took the child from him and hurried back into the bedchamber.

He joined Isabella on the veranda as more gunshots rang out, to see Edmund Beales standing on the beach now, legs spread, hands on hips, looking across the expanse of sand, up at the veranda.

Another man in black. But although tall, although handsome, he was not Geoffrey Baskin, could never be more than he was, a pale-skinned man with a too- thin face and a mass of black curls, a man who wore leather close against his skin even in this heat, like an animal, Courtland had always thought. Beales was smiling now, and Courtland realized that, for all that he’d seen in his short span of years, he’d never before seen true evil. Not until this moment.

Then one of the ships opened fire from the harbor, and a cannonball hit high in the palm trees to the left of the house, severing one so that its top crashed to the ground.

Children cried, called for their mothers. But the mothers, the old men, the young boys, most all of them were running toward the attackers now, armed with pistols of their own, with metal-tipped pikes, with swords whose deadly blades caught the sunlight.

“Isabella!”

“Oh, sweet Jesus protect us,” Isabella said at Beales’s shout.

“Isabella! You’re mine now! Isabella! Geoff is dead! You’re mine. Everything is mine!”

Isabella swayed where she stood and Odette roughly pushed Cassandra, now wrapped tightly in a blanket, into Courtland’s arms as she caught her mistress close against her. “He lies. I did not see this, but I would have seen the Cap’n’s death. I would have known that in my heart. She kept me from seeing the treachery, my own wicked twin. I am so sorry! Come with me now. Into the trees, to the cave. Now, Missy Isabella! For your husband, your child—now!”

Isabella held tightly to the wooden railing for a few moments longer, even as the wives of her husband’s crews were put upon by Beales’s men, and the older crew, crippled and maimed and gray of hair, fell or were subdued, one by one.

At last she turned away, grabbing Courtland’s arm and pulling him back from the open windows. “Take Cassandra, Courtland. Take her and follow Odette. Go with the others, to the cave, just as Papa Geoff has always talked about if we were attacked, remember? Take her now!”

“And you,” Courtland said, pleaded. “You’ll come, too.”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t want you, he wants me. If I go with you, he won’t stop until he finds us all. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll talk to him, reason with him until Geoff comes to save us. But take Cassandra for me, keep her safe for us. Never leave her, Courtland, not for a moment, not until Geoff returns.”

“No! I won’t leave you! You can’t make me leave you!”

She slapped him. Isabella, the gentle one, the always smiling, laughing one. The one he loved above all others. Slapped him.

“Do what I say! You have to live, Courtland. For your Callie, you have to live. You are her protector! Never leave her, not ever! Promise me!”

Courtland nodded, unable to speak, and Isabella put her arms around him, pulling him and her child close, kissing both their foreheads.

She looked at Odette, who only nodded, and then turned away, stepped back onto the veranda, to stand there, her hands on the railing, daring Edmund Beales to do his worst. “I am here, Edmund. Stop this, and we’ll talk! I’ll give you what you want— just stop your men, now!”

Odette tugged on Courtland’s arm, pulling him out of the bedchamber, through one of the bedrooms across the wide hallway, onto the veranda there, the wooden stairs that led down the rear of the house. Once on the ground, they ran into the trees, meeting up with one of the other women, Edythe, who carried young Morgan, and they all pressed on together into previously forbidden territory for the children, the sounds of cannon fire, of gunshot, of unholy screams, chasing at their heels.

“They didn’t stop,” Courtland said, looking to Odette. “He didn’t listen to her. I’ve got to go back, help her.”

“You are a child, and you’ve got to do what she said for you to do,” Odette told him, her large brown eyes filled with tears. “If you love her, you’ll do as she said. It is all we can do. You know the way? Guide us.”

Reluctantly, Courtland led the others deeper into the trees, avoiding the deadfalls Geoffrey Baskin had shown him, the deceptively normal-looking ground that hid deep pits lined with dozens of pointed wooden spikes. On and on they ran, twisting and turning through a path known only to those who had been trained to recognize the signs, until at last they reached the cave.

Some were already there. Spencer, Rian, Fanny, three dozen or more women and even more children sitting wide-eyed and silent in the damp and dark. No more came, not as the screams continued to reach them, as night fell, as some of the young ones began to cry for their mothers, for their empty bellies.

The hours stretched out into an eternity.

At last Courtland could take no more. He reluctantly relinquished Cassandra, whom he’d been holding still for hours and hours, and gave her over to Odette.

He walked slowly, not to avoid the deadfalls, but because he didn’t want to see what he felt sure he would see.

The sun was just rising as he stepped out of the trees, skirting the side of the big house, walking onto the beginnings of the wide beach. The wide, red beach. Buzzing with flies; littered with broken, gutted bodies. Women, children, babies. Animals. They all lay on the sand. They hung from trees. Bodies, pieces of bodies.

The three ships were gone.

Young Isaac was among the dead. Isaac, and so many others who had survived the raid on the church, just to die here. Geoffrey Baskin had saved them, taken them in as his own—for this? Why? Why?

Courtland went to his knees beside Isaac, pressed a hand to the boy’s chest, hoping for a heartbeat, but only came away with blood on his hands. Everywhere he went, every body he knelt beside, he touched, said a prayer for before moving on to the next, and then the next…

The silence rang in his ears like the sound of the whip whistling above his head, ready to sting, to cut. Even the exotic birds in the trees were silent.

At last he turned toward the huge house, his shoulders squaring as he prepared himself for whatever he might face inside those white walls. It was then that he saw the words, written high and wide on the wood. Written in blood.

You lose. No mercy, no quarter. Until it’s mine.

He began to run, not knowing if he should be praying to find Isabella, or to hope that Edmund Beales had taken her with him, because then she’d still be alive.

The most fervent of his prayers weren’t to be answered, for the first thing he saw when entering the high foyer ringed by the main staircase was the body of Isabella Baskin lying on the stone floor. She looked to be asleep, except that her eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the chandelier hanging twenty feet above her head.

Courtland went to his knees beside her, still hoping she was alive, sliding his hands beneath her, trying to lift her up. But her head fell back, her neck broken, and he looked up at the second floor balcony. Had she fallen? Had she been picked up, thrown over the railing? And why? Why?